


Eating Sand

by seirios_kynos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seirios_kynos/pseuds/seirios_kynos
Summary: The morgue was left mostly empty at this hour. Occasionally you would encounter some mourning relatives, or a security officer asleep at his post, but for the most part once the cleaners were gone only the dead remained. That was why the sudden noise startled her so much.
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

The ticking of the clock was like agony. The passage of time. The issesant, never ending grind, till dust. Every life, every death, every birth, rolling on in perpetual misery. Humanity: like mayflies, dropping to the ground, their lives insignificant, every second monotonous, the buzzing that never ceased. Sherlock rarely considered his gift an affliction, yet still he envied the ordinary, envied those like John who could simply live out their dull meaningless lives, unburdened as he was.  
He had been waiting for John to leave the house for hours now, though he doubted he ever would, not only because of the weather but also because his date had canceled on him (he could tell by the shirt he had chosen that morning) but the four nicotine patches on his arm weren’t enough, he needed more, he needed distraction; he needed a case.  
When Lestrade called him he had answered before the line had even started to ring.  
“What is it?”  
“Bloody hell, that was quick.” The inspector commented.  
“What is it, what have you got?” Sherlock repeated, belligerent this time.  
“You know that missing girl you were going on about, the one that vanished?” He remembered it well. They wouldn’t let him inside to look around. It was because of something that he had said to the mother apparently, the police had called it ‘insensitive and cruel’ but John had simply told him he was being ‘a cunt‘, in his eyes he was only being honest.  
“Yes.”  
“Well, we’ve found her,” Lestrade went on.  
“How far?”  
“Brixton.” If he got a cab he could get there in less than fifteen minutes, but that might be difficult in this weather, he thought.  
There had been a heavy thunderstorm passing over London on and off for a couple of days now, with that specific day playing host to torrential rain like no one had ever seen so early in autumn. Of course, Sherlock had seen it coming (the conditions were perfect for it, humidity and low air pressure) but what he hadn’t anticipated was the sharp decrease in crime that had come along with it. It had been three days now since his last case.  
“Text me the address,” he said before hanging up.  
“Case?” John asked from the kitchen, holding in his hands his fifth cup of tea that day.  
“The missing girl, she’s been found dead.”  
“Oh, thank god,” he let out in a sigh, putting down the cup and reaching for his coat.  
  



	2. The Kensington Vampire

Chapter 1: The Kensington Vampire

The rain was hitting the windows in sheets, even the windscreen wipers, in a frenzy moving side to side, couldn’t keep up with it. Lucille had to squint just to see the road up ahead. It was the third one this month, or at least it looked like it. She couldn’t be sure, whoever had initially phoned it in had missed out most of the important details, but thus far all signs pointed towards the same killer.

The first two victims had both been women, Kathrine Spencer and Ava MacDonald, though thus far nothing significant seemed to connect them. They both had accounts registered with the same bank, both enjoyed the work of a popular writer, both owned a pet dog, both had traveled out of London not long before their deaths (different times, different destinations), and both had recently had a haircut, but nothing that could work as a lead yet (the haircuts were coincidental, two separate salons on two separate days that happened to fall within a few weeks of their deaths, but nothing more) other than the same drug in both of their systems and the state in which their bodies had been found.

Just like the first two, this one had been partially dismembered, various internal organs missing, as well as limbs, an arm and most of a leg. ‘The Kensington Vampire’ the papers were calling the killer: as both victims so far had been found with most of their blood drained and two puncture wounds in the neck.

All in all, the case had cannibal written all over it.

As she pulled up alongside yellow tape it was clear they weren’t the first to arrive. Hi-vis jackets were swarming the place like neon-striped insects.

She held out her badge as she stepped out of the car, one arm over her head to shield against the rain as she made her way through. The whole building was damp and cold, and clearly long abandoned, vines growing up one side against a wall that had caved in.

“Where is it?” She asked the startled junior officer at the door. 

“Through there,” He said, looking behind him, “but you can’t just -” She could hear the officer calling after her as she marched past him.

It was a large room with tall ceilings, which looked out over an overgrown garden where one of the walls no longer stood, the other walls littered with graffiti, mold and scorch marks. Three figures were blocking her view of a body in the back corner, lying on the ground surrounded by static lights and white paint - photographs already taken and the forensics team, decked-out in gloves and masks, loitering around the doorway, held back from their work.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She asked loudly as she walked inside.

Inspector Lestrade, one of the three figures, had turned to face her, opening his mouth to speak.

“This is my case!” she called before he had the chance.

“Listen -“

“It’s my bloody case, Lestrade! Why wasn’t I told?”

“We don’t know that yet,” he started to argue, raising his hands up in surrender.

“Yes, we do,” another voice interrupted from behind him, monotone. “It’s the same killer,” the man continued. He was crouched down picking something up from the body, his dark clothes a stark contrast to the others in their forensic suits.

Lucille went on, “I should have been the first person in this room! Nothing should have been touched! And if I find out you’ve taken anything!” She warned, pointing an accusatory finger at the man.

“Only this,” he said, standing now and turning her way, his long coat casting a long shadow across the room. He was holding out a sealed evidence bag with something inside. He held it up for her to see.

“It’s a locket,” he told her. All the others had been found with nothing on them.

As she stepped closer the body came into full view as well: a girl lying on her back, chest cracked open like a nut, guts spilling out and parts of the arm and thigh missing, cut away, leaving only bone and open flesh around it wriggling with flies now. Again, it had been drained of almost all blood, her pale skin turning a ghoulish blue or green in places.

“Anything inside?” she asked, taking the locket from him. 

“Nothing.”

“Was it around her neck?” She took the bag from him.

“Obviously,” he replied impatiently.

She leant down to examine the body more closely. Her jaw had been dislocated and there was an array of small cuts along her neck, but no puncture wounds like the last two.

“The blade used was blunt, it hadn’t been sharpened properly,” Sherlock said from behind her, referring to the incisions on her front.

“I can see that for myself, thank you,” She told him.“Now if you're quite finished I’m sure you can manage to escort yourself from the premises, or would you like me to have you forcibly removed this time, Mr Holmes?”

“Two minutes,” he bargained. She could practically hear the look on his face as he spoke.

“And you can take Lestrade with you,” she added, ignoring his protest.

“Believe me, I derive no great joy from working alongside you either but we both know that this investigation would move a lot faster if you’d only listen.”

“I disagree.” She turned to face him now. “I don’t want you anywhere near this case.”

He clenched his jaw. “Look, the marks on her arms, legs and chest.” He was pointing as he spoke, “Do you see them?”

“Of course I see them,” she hissed back.

“Claw marks, scratches.”

“Bites,” she finished for him, spotting teeth marks on the woman’s hand. _Dogs?_ she thought to herself, _interesting_.

“But they're not a dog’s,” he said as if reading her mind, "well, not all of them."

“Stray cats, could have come in after she was left?” She suggested smartly.

“No, there’s not enough time, she was only put here a couple of hours ago.”

She looked closer. “You’re sure?” She asked, “She’s been dead at least a week.”

“Look at her hair!” he said exasperated. Her hair was still damp from the rain outside. _Damn._

“Her hair?” She heard a baffled Lestrade ask from over her shoulder.

“Same as the others though, she’s been frozen for some time,” Lucille pointed out.

“Yes, but far less time,” Sherlock went on, “He panicked. No puncture wounds, see?”

“ _He?_ ” She snapped around to face him.

“Balance of probability.” He took out his phone and began typing. Lucille decided that pushing it any further would only prove to be a waste of time.

“Do we know who she is?” She turned to Lestrade again, putting on a pair of gloves as she spoke.

“Sophie Shales, University student, just turned twenty,” He began, “Mum took out a missing persons report a couple weeks ago. Last person in contact was her boyfriend, Lucas Kennedy, spoke to her on the phone." Sherlock was right, there was something strange about those marks. “Doors all locked, same as the others,” he went on, “Next door neighbour saw nothing, was out of the country, some sort of medical retreat.”

“I take it she has social media? A phone, texts?” She asked, “Any connections to the other two victims?”

“We’re checking with the missing persons team now.”

“What about a dog?”

“Shih Tzu,” Sherlock was the one who had spoken. They all turned to face him again.

“Sorry?” Another man asked.

He held out his phone for all of them to see. On the screen was a photograph, a Shih Tzu in a pink hat, the girl’s Facebook banner.

“Could be the vet, it’d fit the profile.” She was thinking out loud. He looked over the top of the phone at her briefly, as if asking what she meant. “Medical background,” she suggested.

“We’re dealing with an amature, a professional would tend to his tools.”

“Vet isn’t amature?” She questioned.

“Surgery is surgery, I suppose.” 

Lucille turned to the third figure, who had just spoken, a short man with mousey hair and hands stuffed deep inside his pockets uncomfortably. he seemed very out of place. 

“Who’s this?” She asked, nodding to him.

“John Watson, friend of mine,” Sherlock explained, without so much as looking up from his phone. “John, this is Inspector Gregson.” He pointed her out haphazardly.

“More of a colleague, actually,” John corrected, offering her an awkward smile.

“Ah, so not only one, but two members of the public!” She ignored, shooting Lestrade another glare.

“What about the locket?” John was asking Sherlock.

“It’s not important,” he dismissed.

“But the killer must have left it there?”

“Most likely,” he replied, not looking up from the screen.

“What was it you were saying about the scratches then?” Lucille gave in after taking a closer look, curiosity getting the better of her.

He jumped up, and either not having heard the question or not caring to answer it, let out a loud 'Aha!'

“What is it?”

“They went on holiday!” He exclaimed.

“What?”

“When?” asked Lucille.

”Cornwall, a month ago.”

“It has to be a coincidence!” But it was no use, he was practically out the door already.

“Check again!” He called back, coat streaming out behind him as John followed, sending an apologetic look their way and leaving them all even more confused than they had been before. He was always like that, one moment there, and the next, gone.

She let out a sigh before turning to Lestrade. “Who found her then?”

“Demo team, they’re supposed to be knocking it down tomorrow.” Yes, there was a notice about it outside that she had spotted as she came in.

“What about a residence, what’s her address?” She had pulled out a pen as she asked.

“Shepherd's Bush,” he answered. That was within a two mile radius of the others. She wrote the address down on the back of her hand.

“Live with anyone?”

“Mother, stepfather and a younger sister. Stepfather’s a retired physician,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

She made a mental note. “Alright, I’ll take it from here then.” The forensics team were edging closer now that Sherlock was gone. “I want the whole area sweeped,” she gestured around the body as she spoke to them, “The remaining blood will probably show up positive for GHB again, but have some sent to the lab for testing anyway, can't be too careful, and I want those scratches examined thoroughly, but carefully,” she stressed, too many times now she’d had to deal with idiots mishandling evidence, setting the whole investigation back weeks. “And have this checked for fingerprints,” she added, handing the evidence bag with the locket in it over to one of the workers before pulling off her gloves.

“Hang on a minute!” the Inspector was following after her.

She scoffed, “It’s almost as if you actually want me to tell the chief that you let civilians trespass on a crime scene, again. Or better yet, should I tell him who it was that really solved the taxi driver case?”

“Look, I get it, but Sherlock said -”

“Sherlock Holmes is an amature,” she interrupted. The two of them had never gotten along, past differences, but she had never liked the way he worked either. Besides, it didn’t matter how observant he was: he wasn’t a professional, if he wanted to solve crimes then he should have joined the force. She could solve her own cases. 

The missing persons report couldn't tell her anything that she didn’t already know. As expected, there had been nothing to really suggest that the victim was unsafe leading up to the disappearance, nothing to suggest she was planning to go anywhere either. The day that she had ‘vanished’ the rest of the family had come home to a locked house, no sign of a break in, the girl’s keys still sat on the kitchen counter where she’d put them down after coming in. ‘Vanished into thin air’ it said. The others had been the same.

When they arrived at the victims house she had given orders to an officer at the door that if Sherlock showed up he wasn’t to be allowed inside, though only two members of the family were at home. The stepfather had gone out and was not answering his phone, a detail which Lucille noted with interest. The mother was clearly in shock, could barely speak, and the younger sister wasn’t doing much better.

Just as Sherlock had said, they had gone to Cornwall on holiday just a month prior, all four of them.

“And how long were you there?”

“About a week, we were visiting our gran,” the sister told her, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and tears still streaming down her cheeks. Lucille had a hand on her arm.

“You’re doing really well,” she told her comfortingly.

The Shih Tzu, it turned out, was named Lola. Just as she had expected the dog belonged to the victim: “she looks after her, takes her for walks. Sophie always wanted one, she loves animals, but Mum didn’t want us to have a dog at first. It was a present after she passed her exams last year.”

“Who did you leave the dog with when you went away?” She asked, a virtual web of ideas beginning to take shape in her mind, connections and theories waiting to be posited.

“I -I don’t know,” the girl said, “I can’t remember.” She had started to cry again. The mother was still wailing somewhere further inside the house.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” Lucille smiled gently, handing the girl a packet of tissues from her pocket.

“But what about the locket, the killer must have put it there for a reason?” Davies, the sergeant on duty, was asking as they stepped outside again, walking through the rain towards the car. When Lucille had asked the mother about it she had told her she had never seen it before in her life.

“There’s a bible verse engraved on the back,” she told him. “Psalms 118:6, ‘the lord is on my side, I will not fear’, could be something, could be nothing." 

“But the first two, Spencer and MacDonald, they didn’t have anything on them?”

“No.” Davies had walked around to the other side of the car. “What did the neighbour say?” She asked him once they were both inside.

“Nothing much, David Foster, he’s in his seventies, recently had a heart attack. I don’t think he even knew she was missing if I’m honest. He has a son who lives with him too, mid twenties, nice lad, looks after him. Oh! And we tracked down the boyfriend, he’s at the station now.”

She checked her watch, it was already two. “Okay, let me know when they find the husband, I’d like to have him brought in for questioning as well.” she said, starting up the engine.

All three victims had been taken from their homes: all alone, with no signs of a struggle, doors locked and nothing out of place. All three of them had been out of London: the first on a business trip, away for two nights, less than a week before her death, the second to Spain for four days, and the third to Cornwall for a week. All three lived within walking distance of each other. All three had dogs: a poodle, a Jack Russel, and a Shih Tzu. The first victim lived alone, the second with a partner, third with family. A background check showed that the dogs were taken to different vets, as well as no obvious connections regarding the holidays - it had been the summer after all, a lot of people went away during the summer.

But Sherlock wouldn’t have left in such a rush unless he had noticed something she hadn’t. What was it that she had missed?

It had stopped raining by the time they were back at the station, a sea of angry grey clouds taking its place, glowering down at them.

Lucas Kennedy, the boyfriend, was waiting in one of the offices. He was clearly very shaken, eyes bloodshot and fingernails bitten down to tiny stubs. One of the officers had brought him a cup of water which sat in front of him, untouched.

When she asked him about the dog he looked confused, “Usually she just takes her out on the green, sometimes further.”

“How much further?”

“Holland park, she likes the flowers there.”

The second victim's partner had said something similar, although he hadn’t been sure since he often worked nights.

“I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of days, she'd been avoiding me, not answering my texts. She was acting sort of strange, it was like, I felt like she was hiding something from me, you know? But whenever I asked her what was wrong she just said she was tired.” 

“Any idea why?” 

He looked uneasy. “I didn’t tell them this before, the police, but her step dad,” he paused, “He doesn’t like her going out with me, well, 'cause I’m black,” he said eventually, “last time he caught me round there he threatened me.”

Oh. “Do you think he meant it?” She asked him.

“I dunno.” His hands were shaking as he spoke, “But he hits her mum too, I’ve seen the bruises.” A background check on the stepfather showed that he had a drinking problem, a violent drunk.

“I don’t suppose you knew that he used to be a doctor, with surgical experience?”

“Yeah, I think Sophie mentioned it a while back,” he answered easily, “But what does that have to do with anything?”

The state the body had been found in wasn’t public knowledge yet. Other than those who had been there when it was found and the mother, who had identified the remains, there was nobody that else knew except the killer. It would make sense for him to divert the blame to such a likely suspect, but nothing about this boy told her he was trying to cover his tracks. He was in love, and now he was grieving.

“Nothing at all,” she replied softly, standing up, “Well, thanks for coming in. Sorry again about the time. We can get someone to give you a lift home, if you’d like?”

“Do you think it was him?” he asked, not moving from his chair.

She sighed, “I can’t answer that, Lucas. Just try not to think about it too much, alright? I’ll do my job.” he looked down at his hands. “It’s hard now but it’ll get easier, I promise.” They never did believe her when she said things like that, she wasn’t even sure if she believed it herself, but she always said it anyway.

The stepfather’s name was Howard, Martin Howard. He and the mother had been married for seven years, together for ten. His alibi at the time of the disappearance was sketchy as well, supposedly he had gone fishing, but no one had been able to corroborate the claim. But it was too obvious, she kept thinking. And what about the other victims? There was no connection. He didn't fit the profile. She couldn’t get what Sherlock had said out of her head either, that the killer had panicked, gotten rid of the hody in a hurry. And the way he had run off like that after finding out about the holiday to Cornwall, it must have been significat somehow, why else would he have reacted in that way?

Then there was the scratches. There were pictures of them pinned up on the board in front of her in her office, scratches all over the girls face and shoulders.

She looked down at the locket too, which was still in the bag, sitting on her desk. The results had already come back from the lab, they’d found nothing. Whoever he was, he had planned it out well, making sure to cover his tracks. It was clean, no fingerprints and no DNA, everything was clean.

She was special, she thought to herself, this one was special, but why?

Something wasn’t right. There had to be more to it. There was something that she was missing.

Davies appeared in the door, pulling her away from her thoughts. “What is it?”

The look on his face told her it was bad news. “We’ve managed to track down the stepfather, but he’s refusing to come in. He’s already contacted his lawyer, they’re saying he’s already spoken to a detective.”

Homles, she thought bitterly.

“You think it was the freak again?” Davies asked, recognising the look on her face. 

“Who else could it be?” She sighed. And without proof they couldn’t make an arrest yet either, not without risking blowing the whole case.

“Do you think the boy’s right, that he did it?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, “What time is it?”

“Half-four.”

She swore. It felt like it had been days now since she’d had any time to sleep, or even eat a proper meal, only slowing down long enough for coffee or smoke breaks and a quick takeaway for lunch the day before.

“I’m going to head down to the morgue,” she said after a while, nails tapping on the wooden desk as she thought.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you need to sleep.”

“I’ll be fine.” She was determined to stay ahead of him, she just needed another look at the corpse. “You can go home if you want, see Martha and the kids,” she told him, grabbing her keys. “You know you’ll just end up bored out your skull.”

He didn’t argue. He was just as exhausted as she was. “At least eat something once you're there,” he said to her as she pulled on her coat.

She laughed, after all it was a cannibal they were dealing with. “I’ll see what I can find. Anyway, I thought I told you to stop worrying about me so much?”

“Well, I can’t help it, can I?” He said back, “I don't think I can even remember the last time I saw you relax.”

“Comes with the territory,” she replied, looking over the pictures on the investigation board one last time before she left.

The morgue was left mostly empty at this hour. Occasionally you would encounter some mourning relatives, or a security officer asleep at his post, but for the most part once the cleaners were gone only the dead remained. That was why the sudden noise startled Lucille so much when she walked into the lab.

“Hello”. It was Sherlock, standing at the far side of the room putting his coat on, clearly just on his way out.

“Christ. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she said, though she wasn't exactly surprised to see him, it was only a matter of time before he would show up again, swaggering and conceited as ever. 

He looked down at his watch. “Two hours,” He commented, “tad slow, even for you.”

She ignored the comment, looking around. "What are you doing here, Holmes, I'm guessing it's not a social call? Although I suppose corpses make good company to some." he added in a low voice. When he made no effort to answer the question she asked another. “Where’d your friend go, John was it?”

“Nevermind John, I’ve found your cannibal,” he replied coolly, adjusting his scarf.

Her heart sank. “You’ve solved it already?” but he couldn’t have. Was it the stepfather? Had it been more obvious than she thought?

As he approached her he pulled a folded over sheet of paper out from the inside of his coat: ‘ _Dog Walking & Pet Sitting,_’ it read, ‘ _Caring, Reliable, Affordable, Local._ ’ She took it from him.

“The girl’s next door neighbour, Foster,” he began, sparing no time.

“But he’s ancient?” She countered, looking up at him again. Sherlock rolled his eyes. She let out a breath, “ _The son_.” She’d been so caught up, she had completely overlooked the son.

He smiled again. “Recently moved back in - three months ago to be exact - they had a difficult relationship, father and son, hadn’t spoken in years. Ironic, isn’t it, how terminal illness so often brings people together?” The father had recently had a heart attack, she remembered Davies mentioning it in the car. Sherlock went on, “Recently lost his job, took out a loan, pretty soon he was drowning in debt. Began working odd jobs in hopes of paying it back but with little luck.”

“Dog Walking.” She finished for him, looking down at the flier again, a clipart cartoon puppy smiling back out at her. It was all coming together now, like a Renoir when you took a couple of steps back.

“They also happen to have an old family friend who owns a butcher’s shop, been there for decades. You should really drop by sometime, they have excellent sausages.”

“A butcher’s?” 

“Yes.”

“And the stepfather told you all this?”

“No, but he knew enough,” he replied, before continuing, “Jonathan Foster: when you look him up you’ll find a history of recorded animal abuse, as well a restraining order and dropped charges of assault from a year ago filed by an ex girlfriend, Kasie Brown. The locket around the third victim's neck belonged to her.”

“Jesus,” Lucille let out, thinking back to the girl’s body lying in a freezer only a few feet away from them.

“Next door neighbours all their lives,” He continued, “She was a part of it too,” he pointed to the flyer again, “After all, she was a student and he’s in debt, they both needed the money. Eventually he decides to expand the business, summer holidays are just around the corner so he starts pet sitting for some of his regular customers. But that’s a big job, he needs help. She loves animals, so why not? Pretty soon he’s gained their trust enough that he offers to water the plants as well. Suddenly he’s being handed the keys to someone’s house, what’s stopping him from having copies made? Father is out of the country for a month, so he’s got an empty house, ideal! But it wasn’t, he came back early - his health is getting worse again, so the nurses sent him home - the killer had to get rid of the body in a hurry, or at least what remained of it.”

“But I’ve been working this case for weeks, there’s no way I’d miss -”

“He was good, one of the smart ones, made sure to cover his tracks,” he grinned, maniacal and cat-like. Lucille had never liked how he often seemed to admire the killers, was impressed by them, it sent a shiver down her spine. “He used burner phones, a new number for each client, so that the murders couldn’t be traced back to him.”

“But why would he kill _her?_ ”

“Jealousy.” He was still grinning, “She was seeing someone, remember?”

She swore under her breath. 

“Victim goes away on holiday, he watches the dog and waters the plants while they’re away. That's why there were no signs of a struggle! They trusted him!”

“What about the blood?” She asked, remembering the three grey-blue corpses with their punctured necks.

“Everyone needs a trademark.” He winked, clearly feeling exceptionally proud of himself. 

She looked back down at the flyer again, letting herself fall back onto a nearby chair. “He had it in the window, didn’t he?” She said, putting two and two together. Old butcher’s shop in a tight knit community, it all made sense.

“It’s a trusted local business,” he answered. It was the cherry on top, the final detail. His arrogance.

She closed her eyes, head falling into her hands. “I was so close.”

“You’re reasonably competent, another day and you would have had it,” he reluctantly agreed. Without warning he pulled from his pocket a handful of sausage links wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Here’s all the evidence you’ll need to put him away.”

She felt her blood run cold. “Sausages?”

He nodded.

She felt as if she might be sick.

“I have checked, there are traces of all three victims in there, I can assure you,” he added nonchalantly.

“How many did he sell?” She asked, horrified.

“Hard to say,” he answered calmly, like a machine, unfeeling and cold. “Twenty, twenty-five, give or take,” He guessed. “Would have saved a fortune on pork.” He smiled to himself again.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“There’s a bin by the door.” He nodded to it.

She glared up at him, “You think this is funny, don’t you?” He made a face which suggested he obviously did. “I could bloody kill you right now, you know that.”

“Not yet,” he said, without flinching. “Mustn’t kill me yet, it’s not over,” he said.

“What do you mean, what isn’t over?’

“He had help," he said, suddenly serious. 

“From who?”

He clenched his jaw. “I don't know,” he forced out, “But those marks on her arms, her face. Whoever put them there, they wanted it to be traced back to Foster.”

Now she was confused. “But they were looking after animals? It was the pets, wasn't it?”

“No, they’re too deliberate,” he said as if it was obvious, “The patterns, they’re too precise, only made to look as if it was an animal. Thats why I came here, to take a second look," he added, as if already knowing that Lucille was there for the very same reason. 

“Maybe he just felt guilty, wanted to be caught?” She offered meekly.

“After going to all that trouble? No, he’s too good for that.” he shook his head.

“A game then?” she suggested. It wasn’t unusual for a killer to leave clues, especially one with such eccentric methods.

“No, he’s only killed three people, he’s not ready to stop now.”

She looked down, “Well of course, how silly of me,” she let out bitterly under her breath.

He turned around, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” She stood up and sighed, “Well, are you coming or not?” she asked expectantly.

He stepped towards her, his brow furrowed. “I thought this was your case?”

“I think we’re well past that, don't you?”

Of course, once they had arrived at the house it quickly became clear that he had been right about everything. Blood splatters, only half scrubbed away, painted a gruesome patina across the cellar floor, with the freezer still heavily stocked with the missing body-parts. There were butcher’s knives too, wrapped in a towel under the boy’s bed next to a bin bag full of the victims’ missing clothing. What was truly haunting though, was the hundreds of Vamipre DVDs and novels there were, as well as an array of bizzare and frankly horrifying pornography found on the boy’s personal computer.

He made a full confession once they had returned to Scotland Yard, although he wouldn’t say who had helped him: ‘The devil,’ he had said, claiming he had sold his soul.

It didn’t matter to anyone else though, they’d found their killer, all the evidence was there, most of them just thought the boy was a nutter. But still, it bothered her, a niggling in the back of her head that she couldn’t ignore.

Sherlock had insisted on getting a cab rather than coming in the police car, saying something about needing the silence to think. He had been absent for most of the search as well, standing idle in the background watching it all unfold, not saying a word. After all, he didn’t need to.

He had stayed outside for the questioning as well and was still there waiting for Lucille once it was over.

“Did they kick you out of the building again?” She asked, walking up to him. Large puddles still flooded the streets, left over from the heavy rain of the day before, sending a spray of mucky water over the pavement each time a car passed by.

He turned his head almost mechanically, giving her a pointed look. “He confessed?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Almost immediately."

“And?”

“You were right. Nothing.” Sherlock seemed unfazed by this. “You smoke, don't you?” She asked, moving to stand beside him. She seemed to remember him smoking some time or another. Silently, he pulled up his sleeve. Three nicotine patches were pressed to the inside of his forearm. She shot him a look. “Isn’t that a tad overboard?”

“In my experience, no,” he replied simply, pulling his sleeve back down again.

“Well, do you mind?” she asked, pulling out a cigarette from the pack that was already in her hand. 

"By all means."

“So, you think he’s being threatened?” She asked him as she lit it.

“Probably.”

“Any idea who by?”

“A few,” he replied cryptically, “You?”

“More of a feeling;” It was a familiar feeling of unease, almost as if there was someone watching her, following her like a shadow with every step she took. it was why she had taken the case in the first place. “And it’s only a name really.”

He turned to look her in the eye, interest peaked. “A name?”

She looked around before she replied, surveying the area. They were standing just outside the back entrance, a flock of parked cars and uniformed officers who had just gotten off patrol were bustling around the main doors a few paces away, though no one seemed to be interested in their conversation. She lowered her voice nonetheless, taking a step closer to the detective.

“Have you ever heard of someone who goes by the name Moriarty?” she asked him. His back straightened as soon as she had said the name, suddenly even more alert than before. “You have heard of him then?”

“Yes,” he replied, his sharp eyes narrowing, “What do you know?”

“Not very much,” she admitted, taking another drag. “We call him The Spider."

“Spider?” He repeated.

“Spider at the centre of a web,” she went on, “A vast criminal network that stretches across the globe, all under his control. As far as we can tell he could topple whole governments with just a lift of his finger, for the right price that is.”

“What sort of price?”

“Mostly favours, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours, that sort of thing,” she explained, “Makes it impossible to track him down. We’ve been trying for years now but every time we think we’ve got a hold of something solid it’s like it just vanishes into thin air, turns to smoke.” Quite literally, she thought to herself darkly, there were whole buildings that had been burnt to the ground, some with people still inside. “It's only whispers we’re left with, crumbs. We don’t even know who he is, what he looks like, if Moriarty is even his real name.”

They thought they’d had him once, in a warehouse along the bank of the Thames. Three men had died in the blast. Not a day went by where she didn’t think about it.

“But I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.” She shook her head.

“What makes you think he’s involved?” Sherlock asked regardless.

“Like I said, it’s just a feeling.”

A black cab had pulled up on the road in front of them, Lucille a little on edge until she recognised Sherlock’s friend from earlier, smiling at her. The smile fell as he looked down, spotting her cigarette, and then to Sherlock suspiciously.

“You took your time.” 

“Yeah, I only just got your text, I was sleeping,” John replied irritably, the parked car waiting behind him, “Were you right then, about the butchers?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’m sure Inspector Gregson here will ensure that the killer is brought to sufficient justice.”

John turned to her again. “Sorry, I don't think I caught your first name?” he asked.

“Lucille,” she replied, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“She isn’t interested,” Sherlock interrupted, looking off down the street as he spoke.

John sent her another apologetic look, “I wasn't -”

“It's fine, don't worry about it,” she brushed it off. Sherlock had embarrassed her too, using his powers of deduction, on more than one occasion. “Though, he is right I’m afraid,” she added just to be clear.

The sun, which had now risen in the sky, was finally appearing from behind the sea of grey clouds that lay heavy over the skyline, sending a blanket of golden light bouncing off of glass windows and reflecting off the heavy puddles on the road.

“Look, I’ve got to head to work,” John started. The cab driver that was waiting for him was getting restless. "But, Sherlock, seriously if you could bring yourself, just this once, to pick up some shopping on your way home, that would be great,” he continued in a painfully passive aggressive tone of voice, “You know, bread, milk, normal things, things that we actually need.”

Lucille choked on her inhale. “You two live together?” she managed to get out. They both turned, each sending her a look. “Sorry, it's just - you actually live together?” she asked again.

“We’re not together,” John immediately said, “We’re just flatmates.”

“Still, that's…” She wouldn’t dare even think of it. It was difficult enough to deal with him showing up to snoop around every once in a while, but to actually live with him, day in day out, was unthinkable. Besides, even then, as he stood there before her, she could not for the life of her imagine him in any sort of normal situation. It had somehow never occurred to her that he must actually sleep, and therefore live somewhere, with an ordinary bed in a bedroom of all places, or that he ate.

“It’s just, I suppose I always imagined you living in a haunted tower, or a nuclear bunker or something,” she explained, nodding in Sherlock’s direction as she spoke, “Or a castle maybe, like Batman, or Dracula.”

John snorted, “You’re not too far off with that last one.” The flat really was a mess at the moment. He had thought about trying to tidy up a bit but worried that he might end up in hospital, or worse, what with all the various chemicals and experiments lying around, body parts from Bart's morgue in various stages of decomposition. The skull that sat on the mantelpiece, too, had a distinctly gothic feel to it.

“I fear the rent would be much too high,” the detective commented, a blank look on his face. “I’m joining you,” he added to John, “I have an appointment.”

“An appointment?” John questioned, though he went ignored.

Lucille looked down at her watch. “I should really get back too, lots of paperwork to get through.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I hope you know this won't happen again?” She said seriously, turning to Sherlock, “The next time I find you sniffing around one of my cases I’ll have no choice but to arrest you.”

He looked down at her momentarily, tuning up his coat collar against the wind. “I think you’ll find that would only serve to embarrass us both.”

“Is that a threat?” she scoffed.

He didn’t reply.

“Look, all I’m saying is I’d prefer to solve my own cases, if that’s alright with you.” He had turned his back to her as she spoke to him. “Are you even listening to me?” she called, following them to the cab.

As he climbed inside he looked back over his shoulder. “Until next time, Inspector,” he said, forcing her to take a step back as he shut the door behind him. They had already sped off down the road before she had a chance to stop them, sending a spray of water over the pavement.

She stood and watched as the car disappeared, turning the bend at the end of the street, and felt a gradual despondent wave of coldness wash over her like ice.

“Until next time,” she repeated bitterly, taking a tired deep breath before finally turning and going back inside.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an updated version of the chapter as I had to make a few edits. will be posting more soon.


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